Amuse bouche... Fridge clean

‘I’m throwing these out,” said Adam.“You are not,” said Sheila, snatching the packet of hotdogs from her husband before he reached the bin.

“We’re away for two weeks,” said Adam. “We’re not leaving meat mouldering in the fridge for two weeks.”

“The pack isn’t even opened, and the best-before date is, like, 2050,” Sheila said. “Anyway, they’ve so many preservatives they coudn’t moulder.”

“And you’re feeding these to our children?” Adam said.

Sheila hated when Adam turned his attention to the fridge. Most of the time, he was oblivious to what was in there and what shouldn’t be in there and what, maybe, had been in there too long.

Every now and then, though, he took a notion to set it to rights. It didn’t matter, obviously, if the rest of the kitchen was like a bomb site — once he had the fridge straight, the world was in order.

When Adam set to the fridge, it occurred to Sheila that he was like a dog with his head in a rabbit hole. There he was, nose stuck in the salad drawer, arse sticking out the door of the fridge, the sense of purpose coming off him in waves.

Sheila knew she should leave him at it, but the chat about what was out of date and what was a ferocious waste or a shocking price seemed to be part of the pleasure Adam took in the whole enterprise. Sheila struggled not to take it personally, as if the fridge was a reflection of her faults.

Adam probably only went at the fridge once or twice a year in normal time, but pre-holiday, he went into overdrive.

The week before they left, there was a daily countdown of fruit and veg, which Sheila tried to get ahead of by pureeing any on-the-brink items into a Bolognese sauce. That usually saved some shock and horror when Adam started the clear-out.

But there were always the odd bits. Like that half-eaten halloumi, or the mango that never ripened — it would help if he let her keep it out of the fridge, obviously, but don’t get Adam started on the fruit flies — and, oh god, the cucumbers and carrots that were so far gone they were just plastic-encased liquid.

Sheila had been a bit distracted before this week’s fridge attack, however, and hadn’t managed to get there first. Adam had nearly cried over the barely touched tub of posh potato salad — “€4.50! It’s, like, one potato! And nobody even ate it” — and it looked liked there would be grated carrot in their cucumber sandwiches for the plane.

But Adam’s conscience would be clean. And so would the fridge. Which was no bad way to start a holiday, Sheila thought.